Dulcinea
by Pinkcandle
Summary: As the story slowly starts to be put into motion, Fakir finds himself in a situation he never even wanted to imagine- with Mytho's new and incomplete emotions targeting him, on the backdrop of the Don Quixote ballet. Fakir/Mytho
1. Loneliness

Papers crinkled between the pads of precise paws, flipping through the sheets of music for the ballet the feline teacher had picked out for the day's class. The light of the early morning was finally starting to creep up into the sky, signaling that it was about time for classes to begin, refracting across the polished classroom dance floor. The teacher of the class, however, was quite engrossed in pouring over the particular music he wanted to use, much to the chagrin of the penguin pianist, who sat irritated all the way at the edge of the bench, waiting for the cat to lean back so he wasn't breathing over the bird's shoulder. The students were indulging in the extra time to chat, or, in the case of one of the few human males in the class, brood. Fakir had found himself a nice little corner where his arms could cross perfectly and he could worry on his lip without being bothered by anything more than prying eyes. Occasionally his fingers moved to fidget with his leotard or the rolled-up sleeves of his blue button-down shirt that was tied up to his chest in the center, but mostly he just gripped his opposite forearm as he thought about the problems that were swirling about his life- and morning class did not reach high on his list of concerns.

Before recently, Mytho thought nothing of the way Fakir sat right next to him in dance class. The way he made sure their knees touched while never really making eye contact. He never considered how the other boy, often cold and abusive, still managed to keep him within an arm's reach. Today, however, he noticed that it was different. Princess Tutu had returned another piece of his heart. Though it wasn't one that brought him joy. No, Mytho was learning what it felt like to be alone. So now, as Fakir chose to sit apart from everyone else, apart from him, Mytho was missing that overbearing closeness. That's why he was slowly approaching the other. "Fakir..." he said, voice only audible to one listening, to one who was used to his near whispers of conversation.

Fakir looked up- not because he was being addressed, but because he was being addressed by _that_ voice. It was a voice that one would have to be an idiot to not recognize, but it made him look up because it called to him in a different way. Though the way it sounded now, full of so much emotion in a single word, made him sort of sick. "What is it," he said, perhaps snapped, a bit too harshly.

Yellow eyes changed slightly, looking perhaps like they might shed tears if they knew how. Mytho took a step forward, one that might be described as cautious if he had thought about it first. "You aren't sitting with me," the white haired boy said. It wasn't a question. He didn't ask why this was so, only informing the other boy that it was.

"I'm just thinking," Fakir answered with a dismissive wave of his hand, asking Mytho silently to rejoin the others. "I'll be over when Mr. Cat calls us to start class." The cat in question was still flipping feverishly through the music for his newly selected ballet, perhaps attempting to reassure himself for the fourteenth time that every page was there, by the way he was meticulously pawing through the pages.

"You always sit with me," Mytho insisted, stepping closer. His white ballet shoes barely made a sound on the smooth floor. His white shirt didn't rustle. His white hair didn't stir. Mytho was silent and soft. "You always sit right next to me. Now you're all the way over here."

"I said I'd be over in a few minutes," Fakir answered, sounding a little annoyed. But then again, he almost always sounded a little annoyed, no matter what he was saying. "Go rejoin the others. I'll come sit with you in a few minutes."

Mytho stared for a moment. He still wasn't in a mind to argue with Fakir, so he just gave a single nod of his head and said, "Okay." Mytho turned, graceful even in such a simple move, and made his way back to the rest of the students. Sitting in his usual spot where he took to just gazing forward.

Rue had quickly taken her spot next to him, and Anteaterina attempted to sit on the other side. But as quickly as Mr. Cat had clapped his paws together, Fakir had swooped in, suddenly sliding into place next to Mytho, which got him an angry huff from the anteater girl. "Alright, alright, settle down," Mr. Cat said, raising his lisped voice to get the class' attention. "We're going to be casting for a ballet today that we will be performing in front of the rest of the school for the fine arts festival." When Rue so promptly took her seat beside Mytho, he acknowledged her with a simple nod. Even with his emotions returning to him, being disappointment and loneliness aside, he didn't seem to recognize Rue's constant presence like he did Fakir's. So when the dark haired boy _did_ finally sit beside him, Mytho turned his head and gave just the very tiniest hint of a smile. Then Mr. Cat began to speak, drawing Mytho's attention. Sort of. It wasn't until an actual ballet performance was mentioned that his eyes seemed to light up.

Fakir glanced over after Mytho had turned his eyes away. He noticed how that vacant stare turned excited at the mention of a performance, and he couldn't help a small, amused shake of his head. He probably would have even grinned if he wasn't so busy thinking and mulling over problems, one arm propped up on his knee and the other back behind him, holding him up as he leaned back on it. "The ballet is Don Quixote," Mr. Cat went on to explain, his tail twitching as he clasped his paws together and began to explain. "It ends with the Grand Pas De Deux, so it seemed perfect for what we are practicing now! There's plenty of parts, so everyone in the class will have one... Even those on probation..." he murmured, casting a sharp glance at the pink-haired girl spacing out in the front row.

Mytho blinked and looked at Fakir. "What is a Don Quixote?" he asked quietly.

"It's the name of the main character," Fakir replied, in a voice he'd managed to train to be low enough to talk in class without alerting Mr. Cat. "The ballet is based on a famous novel, Don Quixote de la Mancha." Mr. Cat was, at that moment, preoccupied with cleaning himself vigorously. Duck's spaciness had led to yet another broken marriage threat.

"Don Quixote... de la Mancha..." Mytho repeated, looking almost like he was trying to understand it, but then his face regained that lost, vacant look. He turned his attention back on Mr. Cat who was trying to assign an order for casting. Mytho supposed he would dance like he always did, not knowing what kind of music or moves were part of this particular ballet.

Mr. Cat was already assigning a few of the students based on what he knew about their performances. Students in the beginner's class were given the parts of gypsies, fairies, gnomes, and dryads. He left some of the more skilled students alone for a moment, saving them for the bigger parts. When he was content with his current casting job of the beginners, he looked towards the back of the group. "Mytho, Miss Rue. Would you please come up here? I'd like to see your pas de deux." Mytho just gave a quiet hum and single nod of his head before standing up. Merely out of habit for politeness he wasn't sure where he had learned, Mytho lowered his hand to help Rue to her feet as well. Rue looked a bit surprised when she saw that hand offered to her, but she smiled a little and took it, gracefully getting to her feet. They approached the front of the class, against the windows, and Mr. Cat moved over to the piano to show their penguin pianist which song he wanted him to play. The music started and all eyes turned on the pair expectantly.

The music began and Mytho knew to follow Rue's lead. He managed behind her to start, mimicking her moves. He knew when he saw her knees bend that she was going to jump, so his arms came in to lift her. While the dance was elegant and had everyone in awe as usual, it wasn't the same. Mytho had that look in his eyes like he was dancing alone. Dancing with Rue felt empty somehow. He thought about Fakir's distance and wished, somehow, they could be the ones dancing right now. The short piece of music ended and Mytho finished in the classic kneel, facing Rue whom he managed to be looking straight through into nothing. Rue's face went through the emotions it always went through when they finished dancing. First, she looked content to have danced with him, but then she looked sad as she realized that he wasn't even looking at her. He'd been going through the motions, nothing more. "Hmm," Mr. Cat hummed as he applauded along with the other students. "Very nice. Senor Fakir," he then said, motioning for the other boy to come up. Fakir got to his feet and approached the two, going to take Rue's hand from Mytho's. "No, no," Mr. Cat corrected, making both of them look over in confusion. "I'd like to see Mytho dance the other part. So if you wouldn't mind leading him, Fakir."

"Oh," Fakir dropped Rue's hand, leaving her looking rather embarrassed from being dismissed like that. She bit her lip and turned away before hastily going back to her seat. Mytho looked up at Fakir for a brief moment before taking his position in front of him. The music began. Mytho's feet immediately went into third position and his arms into the Russian fifth. While he wasn't trained to be on his toes like the girls, he pushed up and tipped gracefully across the floor, taking those tiny steps.

Mytho could dance most any part. It was one of his many hidden talents. He was strong enough to do the lifts and light enough to be lifted. Fakir, on the other hand, most certainly could not dance any traditionally female roles, but he did a splendid job as the leader of the pas de deux. His movements were quick and powerful, and offset Mytho's light and airy style well. He never got to dance with others much, mostly because other students were too put off by his attitude to cast him in any student-run productions. It was obvious now, though, that he was in his element, and he put all of his effort into showing that yes, he could, in fact, dance. Mytho's eyes lit up like new when Fakir began to dance with him. When Fakir's hands lifted him at the hips, Mytho felt like those hands were lifting his heart. He felt closer to Fakir than he had before. Both of them together doing the thing that brought him the most peace. A pirouette allowed him to face Fakir from across the room, and then, on feather light steps, he leapt forward with arms and legs elongated as well as he could.

Fakir easily caught Mytho in mid-jump, one arm wrapping around his thigh and the other stretched out gracefully to hold his ankle. The students watching held their breath, seemingly expecting Fakir to drop the other boy, like he had when he had danced with Duck. Most likely none of them had realized that that drop had been on purpose- this time, he held Mytho up perfectly. His arms didn't even shake. Eventually, he placed him back down, right into arabesque, outward breaths of relief coupling it, and delicately took that outstretched hand to help him spin on only his supporting leg. Mytho had complete trust in Fakir to catch him. He knew the knight would not fail his prince. The turn of the arabesque was completed just as the music faded. Mytho lowered himself into fourth position with his one arm still extended in Fakir's hand while the other reached out behind him.

When the music faded, Mr. Cat began to clap his paws together, and was soon joined in applauding by the rest of the class. "Splendid!" he purred, nodding his head in approval. "That's what I needed to see to decide. Now..." He put a hand to his chin, clearly thinking hard about the decision he was about to make. "Mytho, I would like to see you dance the part of all of the forms of Dulcinea."

Mytho looked at Mr. Cat. He didn't seem excited or reluctant. He just blinked those big golden eyes of his and turned to Fakir. "Who is Dulcinea?" he asked, not meaning to be offensive, he was just unaware.

"Don Quixote's love," Fakir answered. "She technically does not exist, but he continuously projects her onto various others throughout the story. Don Quixote relentlessly fights for her, even though she is pretty much fictional."

"Yes, that's about the gist of it," Mr. Cat agreed, crossing his paws and nodding his head. "She doesn't appear in the original story, really, but she is very important in the ballet adaptation. Your style of dancing is good for a character like this, Mytho, so I would like you to portray her."

"Ah..." Mytho breathed a soft noise. Don Quixote's love? "I'll be dancing the girl's part?" he asked. Mytho wasn't offended. Perhaps slightly curious about how it would work. "If I'm Dulcinea, who is Don Quixote?"

"It is not about girl's parts and boy's parts," Mr. Cat scolded, waving a claw about. "It is about whose style of dancing matches the character- that is the important part." He took the second question into a bit more careful consideration. "Miss Rue," he said slowly.

"Yes?" she asked hopefully, looking up.

"I should like you to dance the part of the Bachelor Sanson Carrasco."

"Oh, I see... Alright," Rue answered, nodding her head, though looking a little disappointed.

"And Senor Fakir," Mr. Cat finished, pointing to the dark skinned boy. "You will be Don Quixote."

Mytho felt his heart tickle slightly. "I'll be dancing with Fakir?" he asked, but no real answer was sought. He knew the answer. It was just said. So he looked at the other boy with that ghost of a smile. "We're dancing together, Fakir."

"Yeah, we are," Fakir answered, though he sounded a little dumbstruck. He almost never got to dance a lead part. If there was a male lead, Mytho typically was the one for the job, and if there was a female lead, Fakir was not someone who could take it on. There was a very tiny curling up of the edges of his lips as the realization hit him. Ahiru was smiling from the front line and actually started to clap. She was happy for Fakir actually getting a lead. She knew it was rare from what she'd heard from her friends. There were mixed feelings going around the room over Mr. Cat's decision. Most people were looking forward to the classic Mytho and Rue pairing in the ballet. Some students were disappointed that they had already lost their chance to be paired with Mytho. The more advanced students saw a brilliance in their teacher's alternative casting. Such a pair was rare, hardly seen outside professional companies, and they were looking forward to how it would be produced.

Mr. Cat's eyes went over the cast list one last time and his eyes shrunk a little when he realized that he'd skipped over an important part. "Oh!" He skimmed down the list of names, realizing that he'd cast almost everyone, except... "Miss Duck."

Ahiru flailed a bit where she sat, not expecting at all for her name to be called. "Y-Yes!"

"Your part... will be Sancho, the donkey rider," Mr. Cat said. "Your clumsiness with your technique will actually do the part some good." His tail flicked as he nodded, content with the reasoning. "This is a big responsibility Miss Duck, so I trust you will take it very seriously."

"D-Donkey rider?" Ahiru stammered, her face going red. 

"Oh Ahiru!" her blonde friend squealed, stars in her eyes. "Mr. Cat never gives roles to such horrifically skilled probation students! Sancho is practically a third lead!" She wrapped her arms around the redhead and squealed again. "This _is _a huge responsibility! But don't you worry, Pike and I will be there when you ruin the entire production!"

"We have a while until the fine arts festival, but I would like to start you all practicing your biggest parts now," Mr. Cat said. "That way you can all practice on your own time- which I certainly expect you to do. But first, morning exercises." He waved his paws, expecting everyone to snap to attention and head towards the barre. "First position!"

Mytho took his place at the barre. As usual, Fakir was on the end behind him and Rue was in front of him. Mytho used to like standing closer to the window, but he had a habit of gazing out of it and daydreaming. Mr. Cat got on him for this multiple times until Fakir finally moved him. They rolled right into the ritual of two demi-plié, one grand-plié, two demi-plié, one grand-plié, and so on. Without moving his head an inch, which would have been normal for speaking over one's shoulder, he asked, "Are you happy to dance with me, Fakir?"

Fakir almost didn't notice Mytho's voice at first, since the other boy wasn't looking at him when he spoke, but he finally heard him after a moment of straining his ears. "Yeah. It'll be nice," he answered shortly, not missing a beat in his fluid move from one position to the next.

"You have the lead," Mytho said, like he was trying to congratulate his friend, but it just came out like an obvious observation.

"Yeah, weird, isn't it," Fakir answered, shrugging his shoulders a little. "I'm glad to have the chance at least."

Mytho mumbled. "Weird..." He wasn't sure what Fakir meant by that. Mytho thought Fakir was an amazing dancer and deserved the lead just as much as anyone else. The next exercise began then. He extended his foot forward from first position, then out to the side, sweeping it across the floor, and then lifted it off the ground to tuck his heel into his knee. The foot came down into first and it began again. "Will you read Don Quixote to me?"

Fakir thought about that for a few moments. He was very particular about what Mytho read, but Don Quixote would be fine. "Sure, I will."

"We'll dance them better," Mytho insisted, hand placed delicately on the barre, fingers barely touching it. "Don Quixote and Dulcinea. Won't we?"

"Yeah," Fakir answered, that small, twitchy thing that was almost a smile reappearing on his face. "You know, Dulcinea isn't really in the book, though. She's mentioned, but she's not there."

"She's in the ballet," Mytho said, his words caught between an argument and a question.

"Well, yes, it's a part," Fakir said, not quite sure how to explain it. "But she's a figment of Don Quixote's imagination."

The pale boy's movements faltered slightly. "Dulcinea isn't real."

Fakir noticed and quickly tried to rectify his explanation. "Well... no, she is real, but she's an idea."

"Do they fall in love?" he asked, perhaps with hope, but it was really just an infliction in his voice. "They get to be together."

"Well..." Fakir bit his lip, trying to figure out how to best put it. "Don Quixote already loves her. She's his ideal. And they do meet, sort of. But in the end he's sent to go home and get some rest, really, since all of the other characters think he's mad." Mytho's foot slipped and he managed to stumble into the barre that time. He quickly shook his head and changed position to begin the changement exercises. Disappointment had been the first emotion for him to gain back, and it was attacking him now. Mytho wanted a happy ending for Don Quixote. An ending where he found true love. Mytho liked those stories. Now, however, he was to play the part of a love that would never truly be obtained. A love forsaken and forgotten by a mad man. "Mytho!" Fakir almost lurched forward to help the other boy, only to hesitate when he quickly got up and returned to his practice. Perhaps disclosing that in the middle of class wasn't the best idea. Fakir decided to keep quiet then, not wanting to mess with Mytho anymore. It almost always slipped his mind that Mytho's emotions were new and raw and very prone to messing with him when picked at.

Class ended and Mytho returned to the barre. Not to practice, but to gaze out and daydream like he was wont to do. Ahiru wanted to talk with Fakir about their roles together, but of course her friends had turned it into a confession fiasco like they always did, telling her to follow her heart and that they'd be there to pick up the pieces when it was all over. That's why a loud "Qua- Oof!" was heard when they pushed her right into the older boy, colliding face first into his back.

Fakir put one foot forward, bracing himself to stop them from tumbling face-first into the polished wooden floor. He grimaced and looked over his shoulder at her then. "Can I help you?" he asked flatly.

"Ah! Fakir! Fakir, hi!" she said stumbling and fumbling over herself. "I, um, that is to say... I wanted to uh... Well you're Don Quixote and I'm Sancho so, so, so... I wanted to tell you how excited I was!" Ahiru found herself laughing awkwardly and quite out of her own control now. "I guess we'll be practicing together a lot! A-A-And I know I'm in the probation class right now, but you don't have to worry! I'm going to try my very absolute hardest to dance my best!" she said, finishing with a bow and just staying like that.

Fakir turned around and crossed his arms as he listened to her stammer, obviously not very put off by it. He patiently waited for her to get to the point, though the expression he wore probably made it look like he was getting annoyed. "You don't need to bow," he said at the end, waving his hand as a signal for her to stand up straight. "And you had better try your best, or Mr. Cat's going to flip. Once he gives us the steps for some of our parts together, we'll set up as many dates to practice as possible."

Ahiru glanced up, her face a relatively normal color once more. "Shouldn't some of your attention go to practicing with Mytho, too?" she asked.

"Well, yeah," Fakir said, shrugging his shoulders. "And I will. But you need all the practice you can get. Mytho will have the whole thing memorized in two weeks, down to the very last step." 

Ahiru stood up straight then. Fakir had a point. Mytho was a genius when it came to ballet. So she folded her hands in front of her body, smiled, and bowed her head to him. "Thank you, Fakir. I'll practice all the time. I promise."

"I'll believe that promise when I see you come through with it," Fakir answered. "For now, enjoy your free time until Mr. Cat gives us our first dance together." He gave a rather half-hearted excuse for a wave with two fingers before he turned to exit the classroom and go change into his regular clothing.

It was a few minutes before Mytho entered the small locker room. He held a pair of brand new white pointe shoes in his hands. His expression didn't read much of one way or the other. Mytho simply set the shoes on the floor, opened his locker, and started to pull the white shirt up over his head. Fakir was pretty much already undressed, already pulling his uniform from his locker. He'd wait for Mytho, though, and escort him back to their room, so once he was fully dressed, he leaned against his locker and waited for Mytho to finish. He didn't think much of watching him- he'd been doing it since he was a little kid. Mytho stripped down to his skin. He was more comfortable bare beneath the black tights and Fakir had never bothered to teach him otherwise. Sure, Mytho had seen the other male dancers walk about in their skin tight briefs, but he never thought it should be that way for himself. Dressed back in his school uniform, not owning many other outfits, Mytho picked the shoes up again and faced Fakir. "Rue says she'll teach me pointe for the show."

"I'm sure Mr. Cat will teach you," Fakir said with a shake of his head, readjusting his hair tie. "After all, he did cast you for the part. He wouldn't neglect to teach you pointe."

"Rue says it's hard. She said I might not be able to do it in time." Mytho looked down at the slippers in his hands. "She offered to take the role for me if I couldn't."

Fakir sneered a little. "She's such a brat sometimes. Mr. Cat wouldn't have cast you if he didn't think you could learn in time. And you know you can." He pushed himself up from his locker, motioning for Mytho to follow him. "C'mon, do you want me to get you Don Quixote from the library?"

The slippers were held tightly against his chest. "I want Beauty and the Beast again," he answered.

Fakir looked over his shoulder, frowning a little. "Now you don't want it?" he sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, fine. I'll get you Beauty and the Beast. Just come on," he commanded a bit more firmly this time.

Mytho followed along diligently like he always did. "It has a happy ending," he said, voice in that whisper again.

Fakir chose not to say anything. He led them out of the classroom building and across the campus courtyard until they came to the library. "Stay here," he said to Mytho once they were in the foyer of the dusty old building. "I'll be out in just a few minutes." Gold eyes just looked back without giving a word of response. As Fakir began to walk away, Mytho took a few steps to follow him. "Mytho," Fakir warned, hearing those footsteps following him. It wasn't even that he minded being followed into the library, it was the fact that Mytho was defying his mindless order. "I just said to stay here. I won't be inside that long."

"Why can't I come?"

Fakir ground his teeth a little. "There's just no reason for you to," he answered.

Mytho didn't know how to argue his feelings, so he just backed up those same steps to his original spot just inside the door. As Fakir began to walk away again, Mytho was struck with that newly obtained feeling of loneliness. Each step was like a mile between him and his friend. Mytho clutched the slippers even tighter, like he thought they would comfort him. Fakir strolled into the library and breathed in deeply the musty scent of the towers and towers of old books. Figuring Mytho would probably get some form of sad if he left him out there too long, he didn't let himself linger and quickly moved over to the section he knew he needed, climbing up onto the ladder to search for the proper book. He picked out a few others he knew the boy liked, and a few for his own reading as well- the ones he wouldn't let Mytho read. As he headed towards the front of the place to check out the books, he hesitated, backtracking and heading down one of the rows to search for one last book. He pulled it out and blew the dust from the cover- Don Quixote de la Mancha- and shoved it in the center of the stack he held against his chest. A few moments later, he was checked out and he came out into the foyer again, the books tucked against his chin. Hearing footsteps, Mytho looked up from the slippers and his eyes widened slightly. The boy actually managed a half run up to the other, coming to stand right in front of him. "Fakir."

"What? Is something the matter?" Fakir asked, shifting the books about so he could see over them more easily. Mytho didn't have a word to offer. He just stood there, looking at Fakir with those large eyes. Large eyes that looked as though they belonged to a child asking for a hand to hold. Fakir just stared back, frowning and adjusting the books again. "C'mon," he sighed, starting to lead the way back to their dormitory. He didn't have the time to try and figure out what Mytho's silent, emotion-laden gazes meant.

The pale boy followed along closely. In the past he might have had the idle inclination to wander off if something caught his attention well enough, like a singing bird, but now he was insistent on being by Fakir's side. Back in their dorm, he set the shoes beside the slender vase holding their single rose. Mytho had insisted on one after hearing Beauty and the Beast for the first time. He changed into the single white shirt he used for sleeping since Fakir had taught him to take off his uniform at home. So now he was on the bed, knees pulled into chest, shirt open at the bottom to reveal bare thighs. Fakir put the books down, dividing them into two piles- the ones Mytho was allowed to read, and those that were meant for Fakir's eyes only. He pushed his stack of books over to sit next to the chair he typically read in, while he picked up Mytho's books and placed them on the table by his bedside. "I'm going to go take a shower now," he announced as he let his hair free from its tie. Normally he wouldn't announce this, but Mytho seemed so... clingy today. He figured it best to just alert Mytho to anything that could take him out of the room, even if only for a little while. "Okay?"

Gold eyes were strangely fixated on the hair spilling around Fakir's neck. Slender fingers twitched with the urge to touch it, but he made no move. He simply nodded to show he'd heard. Fakir wasn't even in the bathroom five minutes, though, before Mytho was sitting just outside the door, leaning his back against it and waiting. Fakir tried to open the door twenty minutes later and found it stuck. He pushed a little harder, getting it open only a sliver to reveal Mytho sitting with his back to the door. "Mytho, move," Fakir said with a sigh, adjusting the towel around his waist with one hand while rubbing his hair dry with another. Mytho was on his feet in decent time. He didn't bother to jump or rush. Perhaps not knowing how. When Fakir stepped out of the bathroom, Mytho spotted that hand come off the towel, and without even thinking for a second, he reached out and took hold of it. Fakir stopped drying his hair for a moment when he felt Mytho's hand gripping his. His grip was weak, yet somehow still desperate. "What's wrong with you today?" he asked for lack of anything else to ask, his wet hair falling around his scarred shoulders when he moved the towel again.

"I feel empty when I can't see you," Mytho answered. Loneliness had been returned to him, but he didn't know what to call it. "You're always there, and when you're not, I don't like it."

"You're lonely," Fakir said bluntly, sighing a little. "You're going to need to learn how to be alone sometimes, Mytho. I can't be with you every second."

Mytho looked down at their hands and then back up at Fakir. "Do you think Don Quixote is lonely when he can't see Dulcinea?"

Fakir seemed a bit confused by the question. "I... guess... He's a special case," Fakir sighed, gripping Mytho's hand so he could bring him back into the bedroom portion of their dorm. He wanted to get into his pajamas and rest. "Don't think about it now. I won't be going anywhere for the rest of the night, so you won't have to feel lonely anymore today."

Mytho followed along gladly. He took a seat on his own bed once more and watched Fakir move about the room. The scars caught his attention, as they sometimes did. A faint memory often tried to creep into Mytho's head when he saw those scars. He would come close to remembering the knight who died for him, but right before it all came together, the image would vanish. "You don't get lonely," Mytho said.

"That's not true," Fakir murmured. "I just know how to deal with it." He pulled out black pajama pants and a slightly torn blue shirt that was perfect for sleeping in thanks to its worn state. It did well enough to cover the scar, though it still peeked out through a few of the holes. He grabbed his brush before he came to sit on his bed, starting to brush out his hair. "So I don't talk about it."

Again those gold eyes found something to focus on. Mytho watched as the brush pulled through dark hair and was brought up to do it again. "You don't talk about any of your feelings. Except for how much you hate me."

"I have no reason to talk about them," Fakir answered, ignoring the last statement Mytho chose to utter. "They don't need to be talked about."

"You get to have them. You should talk about them more. I want to know what it's like, Fakir."

"I don't really know how to talk about them," Fakir sighed, tearing through his hair a little too quickly in his agitation and accidentally tugging on it, making himself wince.

"Too hard," Mytho said. Without another word, he got up and moved to the other bed. He sat behind Fakir, taking the brush from him, and began the careful gesture of running the bristles through dark locks. Fakir raised an eyebrow when Mytho came over and took the brush from him. At first, he almost snapped at the other boy for touching his hair, but after a moment, he sighed and allowed it. He wasn't quite sure why- maybe he was just tired of being agitated at Mytho's actions. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and just let Mytho do what he wanted.


	2. Disappointment

Ahiru was struggling a bit to keep up with the music and the tempo at which Mr. Cat was clapping his paws. It was a basic move, and one she'd be performing the most often in the production. Her feet were kept in fourth position as she basically skipped along, holding her arms at a disciplined first position in front of her body. It was how she was to ride her donkey, but you'd think she was falling off it instead. "Come on, come on!" Mr. Cat meowed, stopping and rubbing two of his paw pads against his temple. "You're going to practice this move on your own, Miss Duck, until you can keep up with the beat, or else I may just have to recast you. But we can't take any more time from class for it," he sighed, waving for her to go back to the barre. The girl sighed, embarrassed and frustrated with herself. She knew it should have been simple, but her noodle legs often betrayed her. Not to mention the way her butt always stuck out against her will. Ahiru blushed though when Mytho gave her a small smile and told her she had done well for a first try.

Fakir just rolled his eyes. "Senor Mytho, Senor Fakir," Mr. Cat called, waving for them to come over. "Let me introduce you to the steps for one of your most important dances." When the boys had come over, Mr. Cat began to go through the dance with them step by step, telling each boy what they needed to do and instructing them on how the dance was supposed to look. Since they were still learning the steps, however, it led to a lot of moments where Fakir was left holding Mytho in the air or just clutching his waist, waiting for Mr. Cat to continue his instruction, which was occasionally delayed by him yowling at other students.

They were currently stuck in a fish dive, but Mytho didn't mind. Normally he wouldn't have minded anyway, not having the thought to, but it was even more so right now. It had only been a first time practice session, but already Mytho was dancing with an elegant passion no one had seen in him in a while. He still had his arms spread, held properly and diligently in place. He felt Fakir's hands on him, one holding his thigh and the other on his stomach. Deep breaths were gulped into his gut, making it push against that hand, but it was better than the rapid thumping coming from his chest. Fakir was holding the position with no trouble, legs splayed and locked to keep them properly upright, but he could feel Mytho taking those deep breaths. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"I don't think so," he replied, blinking as a bead of sweat rolled from his forehead down onto his thick eyelashes.

Once Mr. Cat was done threatening marriage onto a group of students who had started to slack off, he turned back to the two only to look a little surprised when he realized that they were still holding the dive. "Okay, now bring him up," he instructed, Fakir following the way his teacher lifted his paws, "And Mytho, point your supporting leg down into arabesque, and then you can put him down, Fakir." Mytho did as instructed. He knew from having watched Rue dance that such a move would have to be done en pointe, but right now, in his normal slippers, all he could manage was to be on tiptoe. While the supporting leg was down, Mytho made sure to keep the other leg out, practically holding himself at a 90 degree angle. That was where he paused, unsure if things would change or perhaps a spin was in order. "Now place your leg down, and Fakir, you're meant to hold his waist for a moment and exchange a look there, before you each go to opposite sides of the stage." Once Mytho had placed his leg down, Fakir gripped his waist and, as instructed, stared into his eyes for just a moment, before letting go and sashaying in one direction.

Mytho didn't even have the chance to blink before the gaze was done and Fakir had left his side. Mytho only faltered for a second before going off the opposite way. As instructed next, his left hand was placed on his waist and the right was lifted to second position, held out like he was going to wave almost. Then he began the quaint prance up stage until he stopped and turned to face Fakir across the way. "Now, Fakir, put out your hands," Mr. Cat said, nodding his head, content with their abilities to get everything correct on their first tries, "And Mytho, take his hands and go up for a spin." They met in the middle where his dainty hands were placed into rougher palms and held quite carefully. Fakir only helped him with the spin once, then it was up to Mytho to keep himself going for another three spins, which at once led him into a sort of fondu which Mr. Cat had to direct him on at the last second. "And now, Fakir, come up behind him," Mr. Cat instructed, voice getting a little faster as they approached the end of the first part of the dance. "And help him into his spins this time."

"Ready?" Fakir asked, hands coming onto Mytho's waist, though he didn't wait before he started the other boy into the spin. The pirouettes came fast which drew a small gasp from Mytho. He recovered just as quickly and helped by putting his own weight into it. Mytho forgot to count the number of spins, but they ended with a single gesture from Mr. Cat. The boys parted ways, only a sashay or two from each other, and ended with their feet in a very open fourth, hand on their hips and the other gesturing over their heads.

Mr. Cat applauded them then, nodding his head. "You boys did very well, you got most of it right this first go. I can trust you two will keep practicing this until it's memorized, and next time we'll move on to the next part." He then moved on to Rue, who was waiting on the other end of the classroom. Fakir went and picked up the small slip of paper their teacher had left with all of the moves written down on it. He was sure Mytho would remember most of that, but he would need a bit of refreshing for a while.

"How'd that feel?" he asked idly, just to talk with Mytho as he read over the steps.

Mytho wiped the back of his hand across his forehead as he came to stand beside Fakir. He glanced at the notes, but made no effort to read them. How did it feel? Fakir must have known that was quite the loaded question. "Not lonely," Mytho finally answered, unable to come up with any better description than that.

Fakir just nodded his head. "Well, that's something." He put the notes back down, turning to Mytho, noticing the sweat dripping down his forehead. "Need a moment before we go at it again?"

Mytho just gave a small shrug to that. "I'm okay, I guess."

"Let's run it again, then." They set into practicing the routine again, and Fakir kept noticing little things that Mytho kept doing. The way he took really deep breaths during the lifts and dives. The way he gasped a bit when Fakir spun him closer. The way he actually stopped Fakir from turning to do one of his moves, holding onto his hands for an extra long moment before he allowed him to proceed. None of it went unnoticed, but Fakir wasn't quite sure what to say about it. So he just let it be, deciding that whatever emotion of Mytho's this was, the other boy would eventually adjust to it.

With the return of each new emotion, the opposite was also revealed. With disappointment came satisfaction. Mytho learned to take pride in the things he could do well. With loneliness came a feeling of friendship and togetherness. It wasn't affection. He'd yet to earn that back. Mytho felt that closeness, though. As he danced with Fakir, the feeling grew deep and powerful. It wasn't like suffocation, but more like a warm drowning. One that Mytho fell into willingly. Until it became too much. The boy gasped in the midst of a plié and stumbled flat on his feet. "I have to stop..."

Fakir seemed surprised and perhaps a little upset when Mytho suddenly stumbled and ground their practice to a halt, but he was glad Mytho at least didn't take a dive to the floor and kept himself upright. "We'll call it quits for today, then," he said, brushing his bangs away from his face, frowning at the sweat speckling his forehead. Mytho just nodded silently and hurried off to the locker room, not taking the mind to avoid anyone in his way. He stumbled his way through the door and found a hiding place between the lockers and the back wall. Mytho slouched down inside the little cubby with his hands clutching over his heart, panting and shaking slightly. Fakir noticed how frantically Mytho left the room, but hesitated to follow. Class still wasn't over... but he figured that without Mytho, he had nothing left to practice, anyway, since Ahiru was still practicing her most basic steps. They weren't going to be practicing any of their dances together until she managed the basics, so he allowed himself to follow Mytho into the locker room. "Mytho?" he called, grumbling to himself as he looked anywhere he could think of, trying to locate the white-haired boy.

Mytho gasped and his eyes widened slightly. Fakir... Fakir was looking for him. There was the urge to run out and join him, but would the boy drown again? Mytho wasn't sure he wanted to. It wasn't painful, but still overwhelming. Not one to want to make his friend mad, Mytho grabbed at the corner of the lockers, other hand still on his chest, and pulled himself up. "Fakir."

"What were you doing back there?" Fakir asked, frowning when Mytho revealed himself from behind the lockers. The pale boy opened his mouth to speak, but no words came, and he just stood there in silence. Mytho's eyes looked at the floor, like he couldn't meet Fakir's gaze. "What's wrong with you now?" Fakir asked, his frown deepening, crossing his arms.

Mytho flinched. "I don't know."

"Do you feel sick?" Fakir prodded. "Or... is it something to do with your heart?"

"My... heart."

Fakir made an annoyed noise, leaning back a bit. "If you don't feel well, head back to the dorm," he instructed.

Mytho's body language spoke as if he's been physically struck. Not by Fakir's words, but by that sound he made. The sound that screamed how put off Fakir was by Mytho's emotions. How bothered he was that the boy was struggling. Like it was inconvenient for him. Mytho walked slowly, passing Fakir and opening the door. "You don't like my heart," he said before closing it behind him. Fakir let out a long sigh when the door was shut. That wasn't the problem. He'd have to explain everything to Mytho at some point, but all he wanted now was for everything to go back to how it was before. If it went back, then Mytho wouldn't be in danger. He'd feel nothing, but he'd be safe at least. He shook his head then, going to rejoin the class. He'd find Mytho later and talk with him.

Ahiru had finally managed her basic trot and was practicing by going around the room again and again. Only she was so focused on doing it right, that she failed to see the doors open. "Qua-!" she cried, finding her face smushed up against Fakir's chest.

"You really should pay more attention to where you're going," Fakir sighed, seemingly not even bothered by her running straight into him.

"Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!" she squawked, pulling back and waving her hands around. "But look!" Ahiru took her position, backside sticking out only slightly, and began the horse-like prance across the floor. "I'm ready, Fakir!"

"Looks like you've almost got it," he murmured, shrugging his shoulders. "It'll do for practice. Do you want to try one of our dances, then?"

Ahiru nodded eagerly and smiled. "Yes!" 

Meanwhile, Mytho was back in the dorm he shared with Fakir. He was going through the other boy's dresser. There wasn't much in it, but he only wanted one thing. Mytho pulled out one of the greyish purple shirts and drew it close, smelling it. It was just like Fakir. He looked over their dorm and noticed the stack of books by his bed. Beauty and the Beast was picked up, the shirt placed on top of it, and then they were carried out. Mytho decided that if Fakir was going to be so bothered by him, then he'd leave. Not forever. Probably not even for more than a day. Mytho just didn't want to be around when Fakir sighed at him like that again.

Fakir spent the rest of class practicing with Ahiru and even stayed a little while afterwards. He figured the extra practice was needed, and maybe Mr. Cat would smile on her for staying behind late. If he had to listen to his teacher go on a yowling tirade at the girl one more time he thought his ears would bleed. At the end of their practice session, Fakir didn't feel like they made much progress- they didn't even get the first dance down. Ahiru was just too prone to messing up and stumbling all over herself, to the point that Fakir had to help her through a lot of the parts, even though their dances weren't really pas de deuxes. Regardless, Fakir was at least glad that the practice session let him take his mind off Mytho for a while. "Do you feel like you're going to remember the steps?" Fakir asked the girl as he let go of her hands, once she was standing in the position she was supposed to strike at the end of the dance.

Ahiru nodded again vigorously. "Of course! Remembering the steps in the easy part," she insisted. "Actually dancing them seems to be hardest. I'm going to keep practicing, though! Don't you worry, Fakir!"

"Do I look worried?" Fakir countered, pointing to his own blank expression. "Mr. Cat said himself that he'd re-cast you if you mess this up- it's on your shoulders only."

"Guh! But! Well!" Ahiru's face put on a small pout. "I already know that, Fakir, but you're my partner. I want you to be pleased with my dancing, too."

Fakir couldn't help it then- he cracked a little bit of a snicker, though the smirk that went with it vanished as quickly as it came. "Impress me, then. We'll start meeting on days when we don't have classes to practice this dance until you've got it down."

Those giant blue eyes blinked at him, but then Ahiru just laughed too. "Got it."

Fakir grabbed his shirt, which he had abandoned in favor of just his leotard during their practice, and slung it over his shoulder. "See you later, then." He then turned, going to get changed into his regular clothing.

"Um, Fakir?"

"Hm? What is it?" Fakir asked, stopping at the door and looking back.

"Is um..." Ahiru's fist came to her mouth in a curious gesture. "Is everything okay with Mytho? He seemed... shaken before."

"He wasn't feeling well," Fakir answered flatly. "I'm sure he was just tired from practice."

The girl just made a small noise. "You two dance wonderfully together. Mytho really looks like he feels safe and happy with you."

Fakir was quiet for a moment, before turning back to the door. "Maybe so," he answered lowly, before cracking it open with the intent to make that his leave.

"What if he does?" she asked next, words a little rushed to catch his attention.

"Does what? Feel safe and happy?" Fakir asked, tightening his grip on the door handle.

Ahiru shrugged a tiny bit. "Well, yes. How does that make you feel? I mean, aren't you glad he feels that way?"

Without even realizing it, Fakir cast a glare at her. "No," he answered. "Mytho has no need for emotions like that." With that, he exited, slamming the door behind him and stalking off to the locker room. Ahiru jumped back at the glare and didn't have the chance to even insist otherwise before the door slammed in her face. So much for that...

Fakir changed quickly and headed back to the dorm. He figured he'd explain himself to Mytho and then the other boy would stop being troubled, and they could go back to the way things were. Without Mytho questioning and getting troubled over every little thing Fakir did. He came into the room, announcing, "I'm back." Only there was no response. Mytho was nowhere to be found. The bathroom was empty and his uniform was hanging up on the hook on the wall. Signs were there, though, like the dresser drawer that was still open slightly and the stack of books that were now askew. Fakir's eyes became wide when he realized, after a quick comb-over of the dorm room, that Mytho wasn't there. He'd obviously been there, though, since a few things seemed to have shifted around. "That idiot," he hissed, throwing his stuff down on his bed and turning to head right back out the door to find the white-haired boy.

"As soon as he was gone, Beauty sat down in the great hall, and fell a crying likewise; but as she was mistress of a great deal of resolution, she recommended herself to God, and resolved not to be uneasy the little time she had to live; for she firmly believed Beast would eat her up that night." Mytho's voice could be heard mumbling out from behind the fabric of Fakir's shirt. He was holding it in one hand while the other was used to turn the pages of the book propped against his knees. Mytho had wandered for a while before finding himself by a small lake. There was a light fog that he seemed to like, so he sat down against a tree and began to read, trying to speak the words like Fakir always did.

Fakir's voice started as a far-off echo, calling Mytho's name as he ran about the small town looking for him. When he had no luck in the town, he veered off into the forest, though it took him some time before he stopped and finally heard Mytho's quiet voice nearby. He turned around and found the lake, and soon spotted the boy sitting near it. "Mytho! There you are!" he exclaimed, trotting up to him. "What're you doing out here?"

Gold eyes looked up at the taller boy running towards him. Mytho waited until Fakir had caught his breath before answering. "You don't like my heart, so I took it away with me."

"That's not it, Mytho," Fakir said, shaking his head quickly. "You misunderstood me, and you shouldn't just come out here over something petty like that. What would I have done if you got hurt or something?"

"I'm not hurt."

"But what if you were?" Fakir stressed, frowning. "Any number of things can go wrong when you just go wandering off like this."

"You would just get mad," Mytho said and turned his eyes back on the book.

"Mytho!" Fakir snapped. But he didn't sound angry- he actually sounded more hurt than anything. "I'm just trying to protect you!"

Mytho's whole body twitched when he heard the hurt in Fakir's voice. His eyes were widened a little, but still on the book. It was a moment or two before he was able to look at Fakir again. "Why can't you help me, too?"

"I just..." Fakir started, shaking his head when he realized his voice was hesitating. "I just don't want you to get hurt, Mytho."

"But I am hurt, Fakir," Mytho said to him.

"You are?" Fakir asked, his attitude almost instantly changing, getting down onto his knees next to Mytho. "What is it- what happened?"

"This..." Mytho whispered with a hand over his heart.

"Oh." Fakir's face fell a bit, and he let out a sigh, though somehow, it sounded different. It sounded more defeated than annoyed. That was the thing about Fakir- he always did the same thing, but it never sounded quite the same. He sat down completely on the grass, and after a hesitant moment, wrapped his arm around Mytho's shoulders, pulling him close. "That damn Princess Tutu," he murmured, frowning up at the sky. "Giving you all of the most hurtful emotions first."

Mytho let out a desperate breath when he was pulled against Fakir's chest. Truthfully, he'd been falling, spiraling out of control without Fakir next to him. Now he was plunged back into those deep waters of contact and tenderness he didn't understand, but craved to the point of pain. "Did she do it on purpose, Fakir?"

"Probably not," Fakir admitted, tilting his head to the side and letting it rest against the downy softness of Mytho's hair. "I still wish she wouldn't do it, though."

One of Mytho's hands touched Fakir's ribs and then slowly slid down along his side. "This doesn't hurt, Fakir."

"What doesn't?" Fakir asked, looking down at the other boy with a quirked brow.

"This thing we're doing. Being close to you," he tried to explain. "This doesn't hurt as much. I just don't know what it means. Do you?"

"Well, you're not lonely now, right?" Fakir hummed, shrugging his shoulders a little. "I guess that's it."

Mytho shook his head. "But it was different before."

"...I don't know, Mytho," Fakir sighed, shaking his head. "But if it doesn't hurt as much, that's good."

"When we danced," he tried to explain again. "Fakir, when we danced, it was even different than this."

"Different like how?" Fakir asked, trying to draw more explanation out of Mytho.

Mytho made a small noise against Fakir's chest. It was an obvious struggle trying to find ways to explain what he was feeling. "It was like being really close. Closer than this. It was like when I go under the covers and it starts to get hot and I can't breathe all the way. The covers close in and wrap around me. I think it's like drowning in something. Only you are the covers, Fakir. You are on me and around me and crawling inside me. I can't breathe with you in there, but I like it. I think." Fakir listened carefully, frowning as he tried to figure out what Mytho was trying to say. He didn't really understand it. He just shook his head a little to show that he didn't quite get it, but pulled Mytho a little closer and rubbed his hand up and down the other boy's upper arm. He hoped that if he showed Mytho that he was there for him, maybe these thoughts would stop troubling him. Mytho was disappointed when Fakir didn't have anything to offer him. He sighed softly, empty. Maybe it was too much to expect. He really didn't know. Mytho picked up the book and offered it to his friend. "Beauty was just abandoned at the Beast's castle."

Fakir nodded, taking the book and propping it up against his knees. He found the place where Mytho had left off his reading, and picked up from there, voice soon evening out to the much calmer tone it always adopted when he read stories to Mytho.

Relevé, retiré devant, soubresaut, ballon, ballon, ballon, plié, chassé. Again and again and again the motions were practiced and committed to form. There was no class today, but that didn't keep the ballerinos from studying their moves for the ballet. As advanced students, they were expected to be perfect. Not good. Not great. Not even fantastic. They had to be perfect. Mytho had begun his study of pointe. He'd only been doing it for a week, but if he wasn't in his academic classes, those shoes were on his feet. Even now in their dorm where he and Fakir were dancing.

Fakir had pushed all of the furniture in the dorm up against the walls, except for the beds, of course, since they were too heavy. But even then, it gave them one entire half of the room to use as their dance floor. They ran through the pas de deux over and over again, taking only a few moments in-between to catch their breaths and wipe their brows. Still, sweat flew from Fakir's long hair whenever he jerked his head and from his hands when he threw them up, so they'd be dry and ready to catch Mytho when he leapt towards Fakir. Despite their aching limbs and heavy breathing, they'd do this all day if they had to in order to get as much practice in as possible.

Pointe was proving to be a difficult art to master. Mytho's feet would ache and throb after being pushed through the movements that demanded so much strength from them. The strain had been there from day one, but physical signs were starting to appear. Surprisingly enough, Mytho had the mind to hide it as best he could. He didn't want to make Fakir worry. Luckily the tights hid the dark bruises on his swollen ankles. He would even bleed inside the pointe shoes, but the stains hadn't seeped through yet. All his efforts had been paying off up until now. The arabesque was what did him in. Mytho was up on that one leg, holding everything up on those tortured toes. His leg quivered and then broke down into full on shaking that sent him crashing into Fakir.

Fakir gasped in surprise when he suddenly found himself knocked off his feet and falling backwards towards the ground. He hit the wood hard, Mytho landing right on top of him. There was an almost deafening crack as Fakir's head made contact with the floor. He hissed, lifting a hand to gingerly touch the back of his head. Mytho pushed himself up, eyes wide with regret. "I'm sorry, Fakir," he said in a slightly raised voice, the closest he ever got to yelling. One of those slender hands reached forward to touch the back of Fakir's head. "Does it hurt? I'm sorry."

"I'll be fine," Fakir managed, though he sounded like the wind had been knocked out of him. There was a bump forming on his head from where he hit the floor, but luckily he didn't seem to be bleeding. He cracked an eye open, realizing that Mytho was hovering over him. "Don't apologize."

"My leg didn't want to hold me up anymore," Mytho tried to explain. His hand was gently petting the back of Fakir's head. Not because Mytho thought to do it on his own, but because Fakir usually did it for him too.

"I figured it eventually would give out," Fakir answered, sighing and letting his own hand drop away from the bump and to the floor. "You're going to want to take a break, then." Mytho continued to sit in Fakir's lap, just gently petting the bump with gold eyes watching his tan face. The taller boy didn't make him get up, didn't force him to move, so that's where he stayed. Mytho's face showed no real emotion, not even as crimson began to spot through the outside of his pointe shoes. Fakir closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to get the room to stop going out of focus. He was sure he'd been fine, but at that moment, the throbbing coming from the bump was making it hard to concentrate. He finally managed to open his eyes and spot the blood seeping through the shoes, though. "Are you bleeding?" he asked quietly.

The hand stilled and those eyes turned to look at his own feet. "Oh..." Mytho said, seeing the blood as well.

Fakir sighed, frowning gently. "Move off, I'll get the bandages," he instructed softly, waving his hand.

"Your head still hurts," Mytho insisted, not moving and resumed the gentle petting. "My feet bleed all the time. It's okay, Fakir."

"It's not okay, we need to bandage it," Fakir insisted. "This is just a bump, it'll be fine, Mytho. Let me get up so I can bandage your foot." Mytho was quiet, staring, but he conceded by getting up and moving to sit on his bed. While Fakir was getting the bandages, he unlaced the still stiff slippers that were stained with red and brown on the inside, and he rolled up his tights a bit. Mytho's ankles were puffy and dark purple in color, hot to the touch. His actual feet were pretty beat up looking with open blisters, bruised toes, and broken nails that were almost split all the way through. The boy just sat there, though, trying to wipe them clean with that same distant face. Fakir made a face when he came over and saw the state of Mytho's feet. It was to be expected, but it was still tough to look at. He carefully took the first foot into his hands, kneeling on one knee on the side of the bed, and began to carefully clean it off with a towel he'd brought wet from their bathroom.

Suddenly, Mytho's fingers curled into the sheets and he made a small noise like a cry was trying to get out. His toes curled in and his leg quivered. "Fakir..." he breathed with a shudder and tightly closed eyes.

"Relax, Mytho," Fakir murmured. "It'll hurt, but it'll be better once this is bandaged." When he was done cleaning the foot of blood and pus from the blisters, he carefully took the bandages and started to delicately wrap it up. "Grit your teeth if it helps."

"Fakir," he whined, voice pitching up ever so slightly. Anyone else would have been yelping and probably crying, but Mytho couldn't. This was as close as he could get. His chest was heaving beneath the white dance shirt as he tried to cope with the pain in his feet. Mytho grit his teeth as Fakir instructed, but that didn't stop his soft helpless noises. "Fakir," he whined once more and actually drew his foot from the other boy's hands. "Fakir..."

Fakir let out a long breath, not letting himself get annoyed. "Just try and relax," he said again, taking Mytho's foot back and taking up the wrapping job again. Before, Mytho could have sprained his ankle or fractured a bone and not even noticed. Things were changing, but Fakir kept telling himself that he couldn't blame Mytho, and that he had to be understanding.

Mytho swallowed a strange sick feeling in his stomach. "I want to dance."

"Now?" Fakir asked, looking up with a bewildered look on his face. "Mytho, your feet are bleeding. You need to get off them for a little while."

"I want to go back to dancing," Mytho said again, coming so close to pleading.

"No, Mytho," Fakir said firmly, face twitching a little as he tried to keep agitation out of his expression. "I need to do this first." Mytho had a look in his eyes between anger and wanting to cry. It was just a brief flash and then it was gone. With the empty expression, Mytho stood. Mytho stood up against Fakir's directions and moved to the open space in their room. He tried to begin, but a sharp twinge in his ankles made him fall. Mytho heard Fakir shout. He slowly pushed himself up, legs bent out beside him, and swept his arm across the floor before lifting it up towards heaven. Gold eyes following. "Mytho!" Fakir stalked over to him and grabbed his arm when it came into the air. "Mytho, why?" he breathed, eyes narrowing as his head throbbed with pain. "Why won't you just listen to me?"

"Nothing hurts when I dance," Mytho said softly. "If I dance, it's just me." Mytho slowly rose to his feet, rising into an open fourth position from which he began to take pointed steps backward. His arm was extended as far as it would go still in the other's hold. "It could be you too, Fakir. It could be you and me." He pulled his hand free as he dropped into a demi-plié and then bent to the side ever so slightly while both arms curled above his head. Already there was fresh blood welling up around his toes, but Mytho didn't care. The boy just pushed up and threw himself into a pirouette, arms angled like an elegant bird.

Fakir grabbed him. His hands came about Mytho's waist and he plucked the other boy up off the floor. "Something does hurt when you dance like this," Fakir murmured, eyes trailed on the blood now dripping from one of Mytho's feet. "I hurt when you hurt yourself, Mytho. Now please... just listen to me and let me help you."

A soft gasp was heard when Fakir picked Mytho up so easily. He looked at the other, taller boy, eyes sort of wide. "You hurt, Fakir?"

"Yes." Fakir stared back at Mytho, trying to keep his eyes sort of dull, though they shined with a bit of unspoken emotion. "It hurts me to see you hurt yourself, Mytho. That's why I want to protect you. So, please... let me do my job. So neither of us are hurting."

One of those dainty hands was lifted and slender fingers ghosted beneath one of the secretly shimmering eyes. Mytho could see it and realized he didn't know what it was. "I don't want to hurt Fakir," he breathed. So then Mytho nodded. "Okay."

"Thank you," Fakir said quietly. He carried Mytho over to the bed and placed him back down, before getting down on one knee and grabbing the bandages again. "I know you like dancing, but if you mess up your feet too badly, you're going to be forced not to dance for a lot longer." Fakir was explaining this like he just needed to talk. Keep talking so the silence wouldn't say anything he didn't want it to. "You could end up in the medical wing if you push yourself too hard. Wouldn't you rather spend a day resting than have to spend weeks or months off your feet?"

"I want to keep dancing," Mytho offered as his best answer to the question. Sadly, the boy did have a bit of a one track mind. Dance. He loved to dance. Plain and simple.

"If you want to dance, you need to take good care of your feet," Fakir said back, trying to keep things simple too. "If you don't take care of your feet and rest for a few days, then you might not be able to dance for a really long time." He finished wrapping one of Mytho's feet and carefully began to clean the other.

"Rest means I can't practice," Mytho said, like it was something Fakir hadn't considered. "Mr. Cat said to practice."

"Being hospitalized for a month means no practice, too. So much so that you probably wouldn't be able to do the show," Fakir said as a counter-point.

"No," Mytho suddenly exclaimed, at least as much as he could, hand clutching his chest. Even the notion of disappointment was rearing its ugly head. "I have to dance, Fakir. I have to dance with you."

"Then do as I say, okay?" Fakir murmured, putting the bloody cloth aside and starting to carefully wrap the second foot.

Mytho hummed softly. "Okay."

Fakir nodded and made a small, contented sound. Once he'd finished wrapping Mytho's feet, he carefully swung the other boy's legs up onto the bed. He then sat down on the edge and pushed on Mytho's chest, trying to get him to lie down. "Rest, alright? We spent a lot of time practicing today, anyway."

Mytho went to lie on his back as the gentle push insisted, but one hand suddenly clasped over Fakir's while the other held around his elbow. "Fakir."

"What is it?" Fakir asked, hesitating for a moment.

The pale boy opened his mouth, but nothing came. He swallowed and finally whispered, "I don't know..."

Fakir frowned a bit. "Would you like me to read to you or something?"

"Fakir, my heart beat really fast when you touched it." Both of Mytho's hands tightened a little. "Why would it do that?"

An uncharacteristic red color suddenly appeared on Fakir's cheeks. "Um... maybe you're sick," he answered after a moment of hesitation.

"I'm not coughing." Golden eyes blinked. "Fakir, your face."

"What about it," Fakir said, putting a hand over his cheeks.

"It changed color," Mytho replied, sitting up now and reaching to touch the other's face.

Fakir gripped his face a bit tighter, shaking his head. "It's nothing," he insisted.

Mytho froze. He watched Fakir for a moment. It seemed like maybe he was going to take a hint and stop, but he didn't. Mytho pushed up the rest of the way and touched his fingers to Fakir's cheek. "You're sick too," he said, taking note of the heat and thinking it was a fever.

"No, that's not it," Fakir said, shaking his head. "I'm not sick, it's just normal." He considered standing and leaving, maybe taking a shower to cool off, but Mytho's hand was still on his face and he didn't want to brush him off.

"I've never seen you do it before," Mytho said as a way of insisting it wasn't normal.

"Doesn't mean it isn't normal," Fakir answered. "I just don't... blush a lot..."

The boy blinked. "Blush..."

"It's normal, okay? Nothing to worry about. Just means I got a little flustered," Fakir said, waving his hand dismissively. Mytho hummed quietly and drew his hands back. He still used one to poke his own cheek, seeing if he could make it change color as well. Fakir smiled weakly. "You probably can't blush," he hummed, brushing his fingers against Mytho's cheek.

Mytho couldn't muster a single reaction to Fakir's fingers sweeping tenderly against his face. "Because of my heart."

"Mhm." Fakir nodded his head. "Without... affection, embarrassment, or something... I doubt you could blush."

"Will Princess Tutu give them back to me?" he asked, looking up at the other boy.

"Maybe she will," Fakir murmured after a short pause.

Mytho thought for a moment. "Do you want me to have them back?"

"I do... and yet I don't," Fakir sighed, leaning back on his hands a little. "I'd like to know the real you... but the more heart shards she collects... the more we're at risk of something terrible happening."

Mytho would lie down then, snowy white hair resting on the pillow with his hands resting on his chest. "Because of the Raven."

"Yeah," Fakir answered, nodding his head slowly. "With each new piece, we risk him trying something to hurt you."

That wasn't really what Mytho was expecting to hear. He knew Fakir cared about him and worried for his safety, but to make no mention of the town's sake or even his own was a little surprising. Fakir's thoughts really were all on Mytho all the time. Just Mytho. "Thank you, Fakir."


	3. Sadness

Mytho had been saved from the Rosemary of Giselle, but not from the crippling sadness that had to be returned to him. Princess Tutu ran off after returning the shard and Rue couldn't handle how the new piece of heart was affecting him. So Mytho had been left to stumble his own way back home. The tears hadn't stopped once since that piece of his heart was put back. Mytho didn't know why he was crying so much. He had no idea he had so much to be sad about. He was struggling up the stairs to their room when he stumbled, falling. "Fakir!" he cried, just letting his face fall into his arm. "Fakir!"

From the room, Fakir heard the muffled shouting emerging from the stairwell. He raised a brow, quickly putting down the book he was reading and bolting to his feet. He pulled open the door and ran down the dormitory hall, before ducking into the stairwell. He was greeted with the sight of Mytho collapsed on the stairs, crying into his arm. The dark-haired boy's eyes went wide when the other boy looked up, exposing the wet trails on his face. Mytho didn't cry. He'd never cried. That could only mean... "Mytho!" Fakir ran down the few steps separating him and the other boy, and crouched down next to him. "Mytho, what happened? Did you meet Tutu again?"

"What's wrong with me?" Mytho sobbed. He pushed up on his knees and grabbed the front of Fakir's shirt desperately. "She said I wouldn't like it, but I that I needed it. I don't like this! Fakir... Fakir..." the poor boy gasped, shaking. "Fakir, what's wrong with me? What happening? What is this?"

"Sadness..." Fakir murmured, taking his best guess at what the new emotion was. It didn't seem like it could be anything else. He put his hands on Mytho's shoulders, one venturing to rub his back a little in hopes of calming him. "It's sadness, Mytho. She gave you sadness."

Mytho sniffled loudly. "A-At first it was just because she gave me the heart shard back, and I always feel it a little at first. Then I... I st-started to think about Giselle and how she died before she could marry her l-lover. Then I started thinking about... about Don Quixote and that he'll never really be with Dulcinea. A-A-And then I thought about you, Fakir, and h-how you don't like me sometimes. All those things to-together they... they made me feel..." Mytho just broke down into sobs again, and buried his face in the other boy's chest.

Fakir sighed, nodding his head a little and continuing to rub Mytho's back. "The stories told in ballets are usually sad," he chose to say, ignoring Mytho's last reason for his sadness. "Not many of them end happily. Let it out, Mytho, and I'm sure you'll feel better after you have." Mytho's whole body was shaking as he sobbed and choked against the taller boy. It seemed like the tears would never stop, soaking his cheeks and Fakir's shirt. Finally, after minutes and minutes of letting the sorrow flow out of him, Mytho started to quiet down. A sniffle and a whimper were still slipping out, but mostly he was done. Fakir nodded his head when Mytho's cries finally began to quiet down. He carefully slid his arm under the other boy's leg, the other still braced against his back. He picked Mytho up, balancing on the step. He climbed the last few stairs and brought Mytho down the hall, shouldering open their dorm room's door.

"My heart hurts, Fakir," he whimpered. "My chest is so full of... of..." Mytho touched his face, feeling the wet trails there. "These..."

"Sadness will do that to you," Fakir murmured. He let the door close behind him and brought Mytho over to his bed, placing the boy down upon it. "Let it out, Mytho, and then get some rest. Sleeping is an easy cure for sadness... you'll feel better when you wake up."

"H-How do you know?" When Mytho was placed on the bed, he made a small desperate noise and at once climbed into Fakir's lap. Mytho's legs wrapped around Fakir's waist, his arms around his shoulders, and his face buried into his neck. "She gives me all the pieces of my heart back, but doesn't help me, Fakir..."

Fakir swallowed a bit when Mytho climbed into his lap. "It's not her job to help you. It's mine. Her job is to give you back the pieces of your heart... and as much as I don't agree with that, it's what she will inevitably do." He frowned a bit, gently raising a hand to rest it on Mytho's head. "And I know, because that is how I choose to cope with sadness much of the time."

"I... I don't think I can sl-sleep..." Mytho said, swallowing back a runny nose. "I hurt too much."

Fakir sighed a little, worrying on his lip. "Then just... let it out and try to relax, Mytho," the boy murmured, petting back white hair. "You'll feel better eventually."

There was just a small noise at first, followed by another, and then there was a painful, "Aauuuugn..." before the pale boy broke down into terrible sobs. It was late when Mytho finally just exhausted himself. Huffs and sniffles made his body quiver against Fakir now and then, but he was out. Unable to put Mytho down for fear of waking him up, Fakir chose to just lean back against the headboard with the tired Mytho still cradled up against him. He frowned as he pet back the other boy's bangs. Damn that Tutu. Not only did she return another shard of Mytho's heart, but it was a painful and troublesome choice of shard, too.

Ahiru was feeling pretty good about giving Mytho another piece of his heart back. She was proud of herself for making such good progress, not even considering the type of emotions she was returning to him. That all changed when she saw Mytho and Fakir walk in to ballet class, though. The prince looked like a wreck, face pale, eyes red, even his hair looked unkempt. Was that because of the heart shard? Did Mytho really handle sorrow that badly? Mr. Cat set the class off again to practice their various parts. Mytho and Fakir were beginning a new duet. Not the final pas de deux, but a dance Don Quixote would share with one of Dulcinea's incarnations. It was clear Mytho's heart was still heavy with agony, too consumed by the pain of sorrow to feel the true benefits of joy yet.

Fakir had found it hard to concentrate, if only because Mytho was obviously having trouble, too. Mytho usually loved to dance, but this shard of sadness seemed to weigh down his bones and make his movements slow. It was impossible to practice the dance with Mytho acting this way. Fakir tried his best, but they often had to stop and let Mytho recollect himself before they could continue. Fakir found himself practicing his own part by himself on the barre a lot while he waited for Mytho to say he was ready to go again. Fakir briefly caught sight of Ahiru staring at one point, and decided to cast her a glare as he lifted his leg up into a nearly perfect straight line. Ahiru flinched, but then she swallowed back her nerves and approached the older boy. "Fakir, what's wrong with Mytho? He's not himself at all today," she said, casting the pale boy a glance as he tried to collect himself.

"You noticed," he snorted, continuing to stretch his legs without looking over at the girl. "He's feeling a little down, that's all. Learning pointe must be taking a lot out of him, wouldn't you agree?"

"Well, Mr. Cat hasn't allowed me to start learning yet," Ahiru answered, "but I've seen Rue dance pointe, and sometimes she struggles. I know it can't be easy just starting to learn like he is. Um..." She scratched her cheek nervously. "Has Mytho been, um... crying?"

Another glare was shot over the dark-haired boy's shoulder. "It's none of your business," he answered, closing his eyes and dipping back until his ponytail brushed the wooden floor. He then opened his eyes again, glaring up at the girl standing over him. "Why."

Her heart skipped a beat with fear and little bit of guilt. "He... He just looks like he has been." Ahiru jumped when she saw Mr. Cat walking towards her, so the girl immediately began her pliés. "Mytho looks really worn out and his eyes are all puffy, almost like they hurt. I'm just worried if he has been." And if she had been the cause of it.

"Maybe he has," Fakir answered, keeping himself arched backwards. "Your observations make sense, but it's still really none of your business. There isn't anything you can do to make him feel better."

"Why... Why is he so upset, though?" Please don't say it's because of a heart shard! Please don't say heart shard!

Even though heart shards were the truth, Fakir would have never just said it outright. "He doesn't like the sad ending to the ballet," Fakir murmured, straightening back up again.

Ahiru pouted. "Oh..." 

"Fakir..." Mytho approached his friend, having pulled himself together once more. "I'm ready. Honest. I'll make it through the whole dance this time."

"You had better," Fakir sighed, releasing the barre to walk over to Mytho's side without a word of goodbye to Ahiru. "We haven't gotten through it once, and if we don't, we'll need to spend even more time than usual practicing after class."

The frustrated tone on the part of his friend made Mytho's bottom lip quiver and his eyes water. "I-I'm really, really trying, Fakir."

Fakir let out a breath, reminding himself that he had to be gentle. "I know, I know. Let's just... try it again, okay?" He extended his hand to Mytho, intending to lead the boy back to their area of the room to practice.

Mytho sucked in his breath and wiped his eyes. Once sure he had himself composed, he took Fakir's hand and followed him to their own little section of the room. He began in the corner, positioned his arms, and began with the bourrée. They were quick, even movements done en pointe that made him look like he was gliding across the floor. He was playing the part of Kitri now, the inn-keeper's daughter who Quixote firsts mistakes for Dulcinea. At first Mytho danced around Fakir, trying to avoid his advances before his form changed. The first part of the dance for Fakir was mostly attempting to retake Mytho's hand, but having it pulled away from him in a quick flick and spin. Steadily, his movements were meant to become more frantic, his attempts to start their dance together more determined. Eventually, he would take Mytho's hand and the other boy would not pull away, and would rather be spun into Fakir. Mytho felt his throat constrict as he looked up into Fakir's eyes. The urge to cry was mounting, but he had to stop it. "Don Quixote's first dance with Dulcinea must have been special for him, right?" the boy asked softly. Mytho was then spun back out. He began a series of turns on alternating feet, progressing in a circle around Fakir, beckoning him to give chase.

"Yeah," Fakir agreed, nodding his head a bit. "It must have been. We'll need to portray that." He dragged the tip of his shoe across the floor in a small arc before he began to follow Mytho in the circle, coming up behind him and grabbing his waist when they hit what would be center stage, and proceeding to help him spin in a tight spin on one foot.

"He's dancing with his beloved for the first time," Mytho went on to say, mostly convincing himself of this. "Don Quixote must have been happy, right? He finally meets her and dances with her." When the spin stopped, he dropped down into a deep plié and then jumped, his legs escaping into second position. Mytho then landed in a demi-plié. The boy glanced over his shoulder and reached one hand towards the other.

Fakir didn't want to tell Mytho that technically, the two had not, and never would meet. He ignored that part of the boy's statement. "Yes, he must have been happy," Fakir answered, taking slow, pointed steps over towards the other boy and taking his hand.

Mytho managed a ghost of a smile as the shard's opposite began to creep in. Slowly, very slowly, joy was being felt in his heart. Mytho lifted himself into an arabesque, waiting for Fakir to turn him like a music box ballerina. "I'm glad..."

One of the corners of Fakir's mouth turned up, just a little. Hearing Mytho was glad was quite a good thing. Hearing Mytho cry and whine had hurt his heart enough that day. He began to walk a circle around Mytho, spinning him slowly on his toes.

"And... I am glad to be dancing with you, Fakir," he went on to say. "It's a new feeling, but it is one I always wanted. This... being happy. I didn't know sadness was a part of it, but..." Mytho's leg shook, but he remained strong. "I feel very happy when I dance with you, Fakir."

Fakir stared back at Mytho, listening closely to him as he spoke. He stepped closer, stilling the spin with a hand on Mytho's waist, holding up his other hand in the air. "I'm glad, Mytho," he responded quietly. "I enjoy dancing with you, too."

Mytho breathed in a gentle whisper, "Fakir..."

"Yes, Mytho?" Fakir asked, lifting Mytho up into the air.

"My heart... is beating fast again, Fakir," he said, looking down into dark eyes.

Fakir breathed inwards deeply. He wasn't quite sure what that meant, but it made his heart speed up a little, too. He placed Mytho down, stepping back and preparing for the last part of the dance.

Both of Mytho's hands were in Fakir's but they slipped away as he took steps backward. Each one was a passé, the foot being lifted tucked into the other knee and vice versa with each step. They shared a fleeting gaze before Dulcinea turned back into Kitri, sashaying off stage, running away with Basilio, her lover.

Fakir's part would continue into a dance with Ahiru, but he didn't care to practice it then. He fell back onto the heels of his feet, allowing his body to go from the rigidity it took on when they danced back to a more casual stance. "Good," he said, letting out a long breath and allowing a hand to linger on his chest as he caught his breath back. "That was good. I think you're getting the hang of this dance, Mytho. We can probably move on soon."

Mytho turned, his movements still soft and graceful even when he wasn't dancing. He nodded at Fakir's words in a silent thank you. Gold eyes then fell upon the hand there on Fakir's chest. Mytho stared for a time. Probably too long. "Is yours doing it too?"

Fakir was quiet for a beat longer, looking over at Mytho and noting those eyes, trained on his hand. He quickly moved his hand away, busying it instead with collecting their things. "Doing what?" he asked flatly, as if that would deter his explaining himself.

Mytho was suddenly at Fakir's side, his slippers having moved him silently across the room. "Like mine," he said, grabbing the other boy's hand and pressing it to his own chest. "If your heart is beating quickly too, then maybe I'm not really sick."

Fakir faltered for a moment, swallowing quickly. "It's normal for it to be going fast after we exert ourselves. Like... like with dancing," he said, his eyes glancing away. 

Gold eyes watched the dark-skinned boy for a short time before letting go. "I see." Mytho followed Fakir to the locker room after that. In his traditional innocent fashion, Mytho paused halfway through changing. That is, halfway between his dance clothes and his uniform, leaving him to stand there naked. "I don't want to get sad again, Fakir. What sort of things make you happy? I want to do them."

Fakir looked over his shoulder briefly, but quickly moved his dark eyes back to his locker. "You already do, Mytho," he said, shaking his head and not allowing himself to be deterred from changing, taking out his pristinely folded school uniform. "I enjoy reading and dancing, and you already do both of those things."

"Isn't there anything el-Ow!" A sudden snap was heard followed by Mytho's cry. His back was arching inwards, standing up on his toes, and hands on his rump. 

Meanwhile, the iguana that often attended the advanced class with them was standing there with a now limp towel and chuckling loudly. "You can't just leave yourself unguarded like that, man." Mytho's bottom lip began to quiver as tears flooded his large golden eyes. He hadn't taken the joke well. At all.

Fakir again looked over his shoulder, eyes going wide again- this time, with protective anger. He stormed around to the other side of the bench, quickly buttoning up his shirt to hide the scars upon his chest. He grabbed the iguana by the back of his collar, fisting it in his hand. "Don't do that again," he hissed, emphasizing each word as if it was a sentence all its own.

The iguana boy hissed out his tongue. "H-Hey! It was just a joke!" he said, struggling to get out of the vice grip. Mytho was rubbing his eyes now, already whimpering and breaking down. "Jeez, you two need to chill out."

Fakir just made a displeased noise, letting go of the other boy's shirt. He chose not to answer that, instead stepping around the iguana and assuming he'd run off on his own after another sharp glare. He'd then grab Mytho's clothing and hold it out to him. "Get dressed. I'm taking you home."

Mytho sniffled against the back of his hand. "It stung, Fakir."

"Yeah," Fakir answered, letting out a sigh. "You're not hurt, though. I can get you some ice if it really stings that badly."

"It doesn't hurt," Mytho explained. "I just didn't like it." He cried a little again, but another sniffle had him reaching out to take the clothing Fakir was offering him.

"I understand," Fakir answered, not really sure what to say. Mytho didn't understand jokes and pranks, and Fakir had quickly found, when he was a child, at least, that trying to explain them was a lost cause. Maybe that would change with one of the heart shards... He grit his teeth, shaking his head free of the thought. No. No more heart shards. He tried to be patient as Mytho slowly took the pieces of clothing and started to dress himself, but he'd riled himself up too much. He put the rest of the clothes down on the bench and jumped over to finish dressing himself.

Mytho was silent as he dressed. A quick deep breath could be heard now and then as he tried to make the crying stop. He did better this time, left only with wet cheeks he didn't think to wipe dry. "Have you ever danced on the lake?" Mytho asked while fixing the yellow stone clasp on his collar.

Fakir brushed himself off, straightening his jacket before turning towards Mytho again. He let out an annoyed breath and grabbed his spare leotard, leaning over the bench and using it to wipe off Mytho's face. "No," he answered simply, balling the leotard up in his hands. Looks like he'd be washing both of them.

The pale boy didn't even wrinkle his nose when the other wiped his face dry. "We should. Maybe it will make us happy."

Fakir paused for a moment. Though it sounded like a waste of time, he didn't want to deny a near-crying Mytho. That could only make matters worse. "Alright," he said, putting his leotard away and closing his locker. "We can dance on the lake. If we practice," he added sternly. "We can practice one of our dances for the show down at the lake."

Mytho nodded with a tiny grace of a smile on his lips. "We'll practice, then."

"Alright. Are you ready to go?" Fakir asked, looking the other boy up and down and peering into his locker to ensure nothing was being left behind. They'd had quite a few instances of Mytho forgetting things and needing to trudge back to the empty class building to retrieve them.

He nodded again. "Yes, Fakir." Once the usual grunt of approval was given, Mytho followed Fakir out of the building. Even as the pair walked through town, Mytho didn't take much interest in their surroundings. He wasn't quite at that level yet of wanting to know about the things around him. Soon cobblestone turned to grass and the buildings were replaced with trees. A fair mist in the air was a sign that they were close to the lake Mytho had a seeming fondness for.

"We spent a lot of time practicing in class today, so we shouldn't stay too long. Your feet are still healing," Fakir murmured to fill the silence. It was obvious he mostly just wanted to go back to the dorm, but he was willing to entertain Mytho's desire to dance on the lake. For a little while. They came to a stop at a tiny dock that jutted out into the mostly natural lake, allowing them to peer through the fronds that surrounded the banks. Fakir placed his belongings down on the solid wood, trusting it more than the wet grass.

Mytho paid no heed to the warning about his feet. If it hadn't been for Fakir checking them every night, no doubt they would have gotten much worse. Mytho insisted on dancing through the pain, despite the physical torture it placed on his feet. The boy had wandered to the edge of the dock, gazing out over the water. Through the fog he could see the small grotto he would sneak away to early in the mornings where he danced in his skin, away from spying eyes. Suddenly he was up on the pointes of his toes, arms circled out in front of his chest, bending back just slightly, and head angled back over his shoulder.

Fakir could tell that Mytho wasn't really listening. For once, he didn't snap at him for it. He just stood, putting his hands upon his hips, watching as Mytho bent back into an elegant position. The dark-skinned boy eventually took a few steps forward, and extended his hand over Mytho's head, taking one of his hands to slowly spin him around.

Mytho spun slowly, eventually coming to face Fakir. For a moment their stood there, chests pressed against one another, staring into each other's eyes... but then Mytho lept away. The gypsy princess had yet to become Dulcinea and had no desire to be swept up in Don Quixote's fantasy yet. Mytho would then begin to plié and pirouette his way through the many puppets that would be accompanying them on the stage.

Fakir flinched a little when Mytho leapt off the end of the dock and into the water. It seemed the pond was rather shallow, though, as only his feet were submerged. Why was there even a dock? Fakir sighed and let the thought go as he followed after Mytho, jumping off the edge of the dock as well and continuing the dance into the shallow water.

Sopping wet shoes and soaked pants hardly slowed Mytho down. Again Don Quixote had given chase to his delusion and she was running. Every leap and turn was an attempt to escape until finally, Dulcinea awakened. Mytho landed after a particularly extended jump, his feet perfectly in third position, and had his arms outstretched towards Fakir.

Fakir wasn't quite happy with dancing on the water, much more aware of the water seeping through his socks and into his shoes. Still, he'd persist with the dance. He took a few triumphant steps towards Mytho, before sweeping one leg, toes pointed, in front of him, and taking those outstretched hands in his own.

Mytho mirrored Fakir's moves so that they were standing only a few inches apart, gazing into each other's eyes. Mytho was supposed to go up into an arabesque so Fakir could gently turn him, but he didn't move. The boy's body gave a small twitch, though.

Fakir waited for a few moments for Mytho to do something, but soon noticed that Mytho was just standing and staring, and wasn't about to move. "Mytho?" he asked quietly, concern very briefly flashing across his face. "What's wrong?" Beneath the white shirt and blue jacket, Mytho's chest was heavy rapidly. His heart was so desperate to feel something that wasn't there yet and it caused the boy pain. Mytho's heart was beating so fast again, but he didn't know why. All it took was a simple touch from Fakir and this thing in his chest jumped to life. Mytho made a small strangled noise as he started to slump over. Fakir opened his mouth to ask again with a bit more edge to his voice, but didn't get the chance before Mytho started to fall. The darker boy gasped, quickly bending his knee to get lower and catch Mytho around the waist before he could collapse into the water. "Mytho? Mytho?"

"It hurts..." Mytho gasped, gripping Fakir's arm and shoulder. "Fakir, why? Why doesn't it hurt so much?"

"I... I don't know," Fakir breathed, trying to stand the two of them back up. "We're going back, Mytho."

Mytho stumbled along with Fakir's support, but then his heart gave a powerful beat. It was a strong pounding that he could physically feel inside and wracked his frail chest. "Ah... Ah!" Mytho fell in the tall grass along the bank, hand clutching his chest. "Nnh! Nnh... nh... nh... nh..." Fakir started to panic a little then. He couldn't tell if something was seriously going bad, or if Mytho was just overreacting to a feeling he hadn't felt before. Regardless, they weren't staying by this lake. He attempted to get down on one knee and pick Mytho up in his arms. At once Mytho grabbed on. Being in such close contact with Fakir only felt like it was making the pain worse, but Mytho didn't care. He knew Fakir was the only one who could help him. Fakir was the only one who could take care of him. Mytho might have had hope for Princess Tutu, but she wasn't here. The frail boy was in pain and she wasn't around. So Mytho did his best to hold on as Fakir ran back to the school. Fakir wasn't sure what to do. Was this some heart shard problem he'd want to keep hidden away, or should he bring Mytho to the infirmary? He found himself running all the way back to the school, only to hesitate in the courtyard. He bit his lip, looking between the school building and the dorm. "Mytho... Do you think you need to see the nurse?" he asked.

"I don't know..." Mytho whimpered, sounding lost and sad again. "I just want to go home, Fakir. I want to go back home." Fakir frowned, but started to nod. He liked that answer. He headed in towards the dorms, carrying Mytho up the stairs towards their room. He'd put Mytho to sleep and the next day, everything would be resolved. He decided this before he even got inside, and once he shouldered his way in, he made a beeline for the bed, to place Mytho down. Mytho whimpered again as he sank into the pillow and blankets. There were new tears in his eyes as he looked up at the other boy. "I can hear it in my ears," he cried. "It feels like it's going to come out. Fakir, what do I do? Please... Please help me..."

"I don't know what to do," Fakir admitted quietly, brushing back Mytho's white hair with a strangely tender hand. "I don't know if there's anything we can do." He sat down on the bed next to Mytho, continuing to brush back his hair in hopes that would do something to help.

"Why d-does my heart have to be such a... t-terrible thing?" Mytho asked, choking on a quiet sob.

Fakir had a million practiced responses to that. He'd always told Mytho that his heart was something wretched, something he didn't want back. But something about Mytho's voice made him hesitant to spout one. Perhaps it was the emotion that was soaking it. "...Everyone's heart is," he chose to say instead.

Mytho actually shook his head. "That... That can't be true, F-Fakir. Your heart..." He was interrupted by another sob, one that forced his eyes closed and his lips to tremble.

"My heart can be just a cruel. I just don't show it," Fakir answered, again wiping Mytho's face, this time only having the back of his hand to use.

"Y-Your heart is brave a-and strong and protective," Mytho insisted. "E-Ever... Ever since you were little and fuh-found me."

Fakir let out a long breath, slowly shaking his head. "I'm not brave."

Mytho tried to wipe his eyes. "You st-stand up to people for me," he said. "You aren't scuh-scared of... of things other p-p-people are."

"That doesn't mean that I'm brave," Fakir murmured. "It just means that I'm abrasive. Standing up to others is nothing. They aren't... dangerous."

"I..." the pale boy sniffled, "I think you're b-brave, Fakir..."

Fakir just frowned and shook his head. "You're wrong," he answered. "I'm not brave." He let out another long breath, moving his hand away and folding it with the other in his lap. Mytho didn't understand why Fakir wouldn't believe him. Why he wasn't allowed to think Fakir was a brave person. Fakir protected Mytho from danger. He stood up to those who picked on Mytho. He wasn't afraid of the dark. He wasn't afraid of spiders. He fought with swords. He did everything Mytho thought a brave person did. So... Why was Fakir insisting otherwise? Mytho watched the other boy, reigning back his tears for only a few short moments before he turned his head into the pillow and started sobbing all over again. Fakir exhaled again. He could hear Mytho crying. He hated it. He slowly rose from the side of the bed and started about the room. Getting undressed. Changing into his pajamas and exchanging his hair tie to one meant for sleeping. He'd then return to Mytho's bed and gently push the other boy over, sitting down next to him and curling his arm around his shoulder. "Let it out," he sighed.

The prince suffered through endless tears. His golden eyes were red now, swollen and tender. His breathing was wet, unable to inhale through a runny nose and teeth sticky with spit. It was an unattractive kind of crying, but genuine, gut wrenching sadness usually was. Mytho's body would tremble with each sob. He'd choke despairingly into Fakir's shirt and moan against the ache in his chest. The dark-skinned boy could feel his shirt becomes disgusting and wet with tears and whatever else, but he just lay his head back and tried to ignore it. Mytho letting it out was a good thing. He gently rubbed his hand along the boy's back and shoulders, trying to calm him, if only a little.

Mytho thought about Rue and how disappointed she was in his feelings. Things weren't the same between them. When she asked if he loved her, Mytho couldn't give her an empty answer anymore. He couldn't just say what she wanted to hear. Mytho could tell it was hurting Rue and he felt bad for it. Mytho thought about Princess Tutu and how wonderful it had been the first time she came to see him. Finally, Mytho was going to get his heart back. Only she delivered to him nothing but pain and misery. Princess Tutu didn't give Mytho any part of his heart he truly wanted. Mytho wanted a heart that would make him feel warm and allow him to laugh, but so far he was only miserable. She would give him another piece of despair and run away, leaving him to suffer alone. Mytho thought about Fakir. He thought about this boy who spent his whole life protecting the prince. Fakir had only ever wanted one thing, but Mytho was slowly taking that away. Fakir just wanted Mytho to stay free from the burden of a heart. Mytho wished he had listened. Fakir was right about hearts. They were nothing but trouble, and now Fakir had to listen to Mytho fall apart. "I'm sorry," the pale boy whined. "I'm sorry, Fakir…"

"Don't apologize," Fakir huffed, still rubbing Mytho's shoulders. "This was... your choice, right? You wanted this. Now you need to learn to deal with it. And... just..." He bit his lip, unsure if it was wise to suggest this, but there wasn't much else he could do. "Maybe Tutu will give you a few shards soon that will give you good feelings. But you can stop before all of the shards are fully assembled." He nodded his head, becoming more sure of the plan as he said it aloud. What else could they do? "It'll be incomplete, but... better. And if you don't take the last shard, whatever it may be, then nothing bad will happen."

"Muh-Maybe I should just get rid of it," Mytho cried. "You t-told me a heart would... would be noth-nothing but trouble. I should j-just listen to you and d-destroy it."

The boy was quiet for a moment, but then he nodded. "That's the other option," he said with a frown. "But... if you go back to the way you were, you might just take another shard from Tutu anyway. It could become an endless cycle of different shards and emotions."

Mytho let out a shuddering sigh. "That s-sounds exhausting..."

"Don't think about it now, Mytho," Fakir murmured. "Get some rest for now." Mytho nodded. He was becoming increasingly worn out as the minutes passed. They'd worked hard in ballet class today. Honestly, he was still tired from all the crying he'd done the night before. Now with this break down on top of everything else, it was a surprise that they boy hadn't just collapsed where he stood hours ago. In a way, Mytho almost felt too tired to go to sleep. Luckily, the ache in his chest was dulling down. Both the ache from this new sorrow, and the unfamiliar one that stemmed from his contact with Fakir. If Mytho was going to get a new heart shard any time soon, he prayed that it would be a good one. Mytho wished and hoped and prayed it would be an emotion that finally put his fluttering heart to rest. He wanted to know why the sight of Fakir put butterflies in his stomach. He wanted to know how to make Fakir feel the same way. So if Mytho had to have a new heart shard, let it be one he could use.


End file.
